


Bats, Birds, Demons and More

by LectorEl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, fucking with alpha verse tropes, some of my more conventional shipping stuff actually, the really weird ships get their own stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 7,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing collection of the batman drabbles I've written, originally posted on tumblr. Expect an over-abundance of Tim and Janet Drake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 147 flash fic, April 21, 2012

‘Do you remember?’ Tim never asks, ‘All those lifetimes ago, when you bought a slave with gray-sky eyes at the market, and made a weapon out of him?’

‘Do you remember, Bruce?’ Tim never asks, ‘Once upon a far away time, when my hands ran red with the blood of your enemies?’

‘Do you remember?’ Tim never asks, ‘back so many years past, the child you taught to kill?’

Tim has lived a thousand lifetimes as Bruce’s blade, his knife in the shadows, the king’s assassin who never walked in sunlight. Tim has always belonged to Bruce, in every lifetime he can remember.

‘Do you remember?’ Tim never asks, ‘When you were king and I was nothing at all, and you called me beloved in the dark of night?’

If he doesn’t ask, he never has to hear the answer. Because either one will break his heart.


	2. Borg-style AU, May 3, 2012

Tim sat on the table, watching Jason maneuver around the kitchen. He cocked his head to the side, the untended tangles of his hair falling into his eyes. “Is there a reason for this ritual, Jason Todd?”

“Yeah- it’s called ‘not dying horribly on the drive to work.’ Haven’t you guys ever heard of coffee?” Jason asked distractedly, not bothering to look at his unwanted guest. “And don’t you have anything better to do than stalk me? Computers to hack, politicians to infect, that sort of thing?”

“We are aware of the beverage of which you speak,” Tim said, ignoring the rest of Jason’s questions. Jason grumbled, but didn’t bother doing more.

“Budge over, I need to eat.” Tim nodded, and slid two feet to the left. He looked down at Jason, and Jason repressed a shiver. He was _never_ going to get used to those pupilless eyes.

“That is not a nutritionally optimal meal,” Tim said, sounding disapproving.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason rolled his eyes. “Thought you were my enemy, not my mother.”

“This body is not-” Jason cut Tim off.

“That was a figure of speech, zombie-boy,” Jason said, taking another bite of his eggs. Tim continued to stare at him disapprovingly.

“We are not zombies, Jason Todd,” Tim said, almost looking like he was pouting. “We are the next generation of the collective.”

“Close enough.” Jason stood up and carried his dishes to the sink. “Look, I’m going now. Go be creepy at somebody else.”

“This body was assigned to observing you, Jason Todd. ‘Being creepy’ around a different target would be counterproductive.” Tim said, the force of his stare boring into Jason’s back.

Jason willed himself not to turn around. “I _know_ I’m gonna regret asking, but mind expanding on that?”

“We compile information and notes about each of our adversaries,” Tim said, appearing at his elbow, “in order to calculate their strengths and weaknesses accordingly.”

“And that’s not unsettling at _all._ Yeesh,” Jason pulled on his jacket. “Whadda you guys do, watch us all while we sleep?”

“At times.”


	3. High Day, May 29, 2012

“‘Ban, ‘ban, Caliban.” Tim smiled darkly, and whispered into the night air, “Farewell, masters! Farewell, farewell.” Farewell, Bruce. Farewell, Dick. Farewell, Alfred. Farewell, Damian, Stephanie, Barbara.

“No more dams I’ll make for fish.” Somebody else will have catch Gotham’s madmen. Tim has no more left to give. Not a single drop of blood he can afford to shed, nor a single patch of skin free of scars. No more peace of mind to sacrifice. He’s been stripped of everything of value. All that’s left is skin and bone and gnawing, burning anger, a tight knot where his heart should be.

“Nor fetch in firing.” Red Robin burns easily, Tim Wayne even easier. Caroline Hill, Alvin Draper, Todd Richards, Mr. Sarcastic, they all go up in smoke. Tim drops the heavy cape of his old Robin suit atop the flaming pile. The last to go. Fitting.

“At requiring,” Tim said under his breath, hoisting his duffelbag. The last bus out of Gotham leaves at a quarter to two. By sunrise, he’ll be somewhere else. Where, he doesn’t know. Just as long as he’s not going because there’s a villain to catch, a wayward family member to track, a training course to complete. Just as long as he’s not required to be there.

“Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish.” Tim stared out the bus window, laptop open on the tray table. A single command sends a virus to the Cave’s computer system. From there, it’ll lurk until it can cross over to the clocktower, and from there, into computer systems around the world. Tim Drake, every fact, every image Batman has, will disappear.

“‘Ban, ‘ban, Caliban, has a new master, get a new man.” It might take a while for that to be noticed, though. There will be quite a bit of collateral damage. Anything Tim had worked on, files, coding, organizational system, it was all going to be erased. He’s taking it back. His labor is not theirs. The family is just going to have to find somebody new to be their sacrifice before the alter of the Mission.

He’s a monster clad in black. He’s his mother’s son. He’s done.

_Freedom, high-day, high-day, freedom, freedom, high-day, freedom!_


	4. Not Impressed, June 11, 2012

“Has Grandfather gone mad?” Damian huffed, staring at the latest delivery from Ra’s.  
Tim hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, his taste has been improving of late.” He ran his hand covetously over the enameled throwing knives.  
“Not the point, Drake.”  
Tim grinned at Damian, and ruffled his hair. “Just go with it, Damian. If he wants to send me shiny new weapons, I’m not going to protest.”  
Damian rolled his eyes. Fine. He’d tried to warn Drake. Not his problem anymore.  
…Even if Grandfather was acting like an old letch. Out of one of Colin’s horrible animes.   
Not. His. Problem.  
Damian growled and yanked at his hair. Drake would be the death of him.  
***  
“Mother,” he complained, “It’s completely improper for Grandfather to display such interest in Drake. It’s unseemly. It’s- It’s practically incest!”  
Talia gave him an indulgent look from her side of the screen. “And what do you expect me to do about it, habibi?”  
“Talk sense to him. Make him quit acting like this,” Damian demanded, dangerously close to pouting.  
Talia hid a smile behind one hand. “I do not have that sort of control over Father, as you well know. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait it out.”  
“Can’t you at least make him be a little more discrete?” Damian asked in despair. He was going to die of secondhand mortification at this rate.  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Talia promised. “Be good for your father.”  
“Yes, Mother,” Damian sighed.   
“Goodnight, habibi. Sleep well.”  
***  
Drake had a letter in his bag. Written on vellum. Damian stole it while he was distracted,and opened it up to see what Grandfather had written.  
“Eww!” Damian threw the letter away from himself, scrubbing his hands furiously on his shirt. He did not need to know that. He really didn’t.   
Drake scooped the letter up, and tucked it into his sleeve with a laugh. “That’s what you get for reading other people’s mail, brat.”  
“My brain hurts,” Damian whimpered. Drake patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.   
“At least you didn’t get to the second half of it.”  
“I hate you both with passionate intensity,” Damian said flatly. Drake smiled.  
“Of course you do. Coming down for breakfast?”  
“Yes,” Damian said grudgingly. It was his one chance to intercept packages from Grandfather. If he couldn’t make Grandfather see reason, he could at least stop it from reaching Drake.  
Which he was only interested in doing to preserve the good name of the house al Ghul, he immediately reassured himself. It wasn’t like he was jealous of Grandfather’s relationship with Drake. That was _ridiculous_.


	5. Janet Drake to her Son, June 13, 2012

I’ve never loved you like you deserved to be loved. It’s not in my makeup. I tried. I tried so hard. But I never loved you the way a child needed to be loved. So I loved you the only way I knew how. The way a miser loves a golden coin, the way a mad man loves his monster, the way a soldier loves his gun. The only love I had to give you- a love that kills.

We’re broken people, you and I. I’m never sure if I broke you, or if you were born that way, born with the same things missing in you that are missing in me. You have my eyes, darling. Did you also inherit the hollow place where my heart should be? I loved you as best I was able.

I had only tainted love to give you, but I tried to make up for it. I taught you how to lie. I taught you how to fake it, till only another person with a hole for a heart could spot your falseness. I taught you cruelty, I taught you strength. I taught you to stand apart, an island onto yourself. I only wish I could have taught you more, taught you the things you were too young to learn.

I wish I’d taught you to see your father’s flaws, the shallowness of his love. I wish I’d taught you how to survive, when the world collapses beneath your feet. I wish I’d taught you what to do when better love than mine fails.

But you learned, all on your own. You bled for those lessons. And now look at you, sharp-edged and wary, hollow-heart protected by walls higher than the ones that crumbled down. My son, my beloved, never-loved-right, never-loved-enough son. My golden coin, my monster, my gun. All grown up with your liar’s smile. I’m so proud of you, of what you’ve become. Smile, darling. Smile and lie.


	6. Exit, August 6, 2012

_They never see it coming. The first warning-the only warning-comes too late._

Tim sets down his pen. Gently. He closes his eyes, breathes in, once. Exhales. And opens his eyes.

“Time’s up,” Tim says.

“For what, Drake?” Damian asks, rolling his eyes. Tim picks up the pen. And he smiles. Dick has never seen anything as horrible as that smile.

“For my patience,” Tim says, and lunges. The pen pierces Damian’s eye, and vitreous gushes down his face. Bones snap, blood pours from split skin. And Tim stands, still smiling that awful smile, Damian at his feet.

“Take another step Bruce, and all three of your children will die today.” Tim doesn’t even look at Bruce. He toes Damian off to the side, ignoring the blood pooling at his feet. “Sit, you three. I have places to be, and you’ll only get in my way.”

_No. That’s not how it happened. Rewind._

Tim lets the pen drop from his hand, clattering loudly on the floor. “Fuck.” The swear is said softly, without force or heat. “Fuck,” Tim repeats. He stands, papers and gauntlets tumbling off his lap. “Time’s up.”

“For what, replacement?” Jason sneers. Tim smiles, closer to a grimace, a baring of teeth. Dick has never seen a smile so hostile.

“My patience,” Tim says, and breathes out. “For this stupid game of make-believe we’re all playing. _Fuck_ this happy-family lie. I’m gone.” He picks up his bag, swings it onto his shoulders.

_No. That’s not how it happened. Quit lying to yourself, Dick. Rewind._

The pen drops off the side of the table, hitting the ground with a quiet sound swallowed up by the cave. Tim stares at it, long enough that Dick notices his distraction.

“Time’s up,” Tim says softly, eyes fixed on nothing.

“Something wrong, Timmy?” he asks. Tim smiles at him, automatically, the same smile Dick has seen a thousand times before.

“Nothing. I’m just tired, Dick. If you’d excuse me?”

Dick thinks to protest but then Damian interrupts. “-tt- Weakling.”

“Damian, that’s uncalled for,” Dick scolds, and when he turns back, Tim is already gone.

_And he never did come back, did he Dick? You just let your brother walk out of your lives. Just. Like. That._


	7. Vampire, August 8, 2012

Dick paced back and forth in the neonatal ward, exhaustion from another long night weighing down on him. He stopped in front of Mar’i’s bassinet, watching his daughter struggle to breathe. Tamaranian genetics and human were never meant to be combined.

“Hello, Dick,” Tim said from behind him, exhale of cold breath brushing the back of Dick’s neck.

Dick forced his voice to be casual, eyes still fixed on the bassinet. “Hey, little brother. What’s up?”

Tim snickered. “The moon, currently.” He wound an arm around Dick’s waist, pressing his face to Dick’s back. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Dick admitted. He twisted around to see Tim smiling at him, still eternally seventeen. He’d cut his own lip on his fangs, leaving a thin trickle of black blood to drip down his chin.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” Tim said lightly. He slipped past Dick to lean over the crib, lifting Mar’i free of her nest of wires, into his arms. She stirred, whimpering fitfully. Tim shushed her, rocking her until she quieted.

“Tim…”Dick reached out to stop him.

Tim pulled a face. “Quit fussing, Dick. I’m not going to hurt her. She’s your _daughter_.”

 _And you’re a vampire who’s tried to kill Damian and Jason multiple times._ Dick bit down on the argument. Antagonizing Tim wouldn’t help.

“What are you doing, Tim?” Dick asked instead. Tim beamed at him, cheeks flushing with stolen blood. He patted Dick’s hand.

“Shh. Don’t worry. This is a gift.” Tim wiped the trail of blood from his chin with his pinky, and offered the bloody finger to Mar’i. Mar’i began to nurse. “She’s struggling on the edge of death. But I live there. She can too.”

Tim passed Mar’i to Dick. She began to wail, loudly. Louder than her underdeveloped lungs should allow.

Tim smiled widely, displaying bloodstained fangs. He stood up on his tiptoes, and kissed Dick’s cheek. “Be happy, Dick. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done with living.”


	8. Triplicate, August 15, 2012

It’s always better to have a backup. Or two. Janet knew that. All three of her.

***

They are their mother’s son. Each one of them. Mercenary, monster, whore. They look at each other, and see their mother. Mother’s blood, edged under nails, spilling from half-healed bullet holes and painted on lips. Mother’s eyes, brimming with ice and rage and calculation.

They smile at one another.

“Hello, brother,” the whore says, smile not disturbing the painted perfection of his face. The mercenary nods back, leaning his weight on the old rifle he carries like a beloved friend.

“And to you,” the monsters says, his sharp nails scraping at the underside of the whore’s wrist. The whore’s smile gains a bladed edge that makes the mercenary sigh in nostalgia.

“You look more like her every day,” the whore says. The monster shushes him, pulling back against a familiar chest.

“So do you,” the monster says, sharp teeth nipping at the mercenary’s neck. The mercenary smiles and twines his fingers into the monster’s hair, leaning in to kiss the whore pinned between them.

“We all do.”

***

The first time they meet, they’re little, only just starting to become the creatures they’ll grow to be. Marked by subtle things, the tang of gunpowder, the hint of perfume, the bloodstain poorly hidden. They smile at one another, little boy smiles edged with the knives their mother armed them with.

They’re their mother’s son. She couldn’t be more proud.

***

The whore curls tight around the mercenary, stroking scarred and healing skin. “Pretty boy,” he says, a promise and a reassurance. Pretty boy. Just like our mother.

The monster stoops to kiss them both, flooding their mouths with the taste of raw meat and immortality. The mercenary’s hands curl into thick hair, pulling the monster down into the bed with them.

“Deadly boy,” the monster adds. Just like our mother.

Just like us.

***

It’s always better to have a backup. Or two. Janet knew that. Her son does too.


	9. Ra's/Tim, August 18, 2012

Tim took his long coat off the hook by the door, and folded it over his arm. Moving unhurriedly, he slipped a handful of potentially useful items inside the inner pockets. That done, he moved to the main room, and took a seat to wait. This would be one of his most important performances in his life. Everything hung on it going right.

He didn’t have to wait long. Tim bit down on a laugh as Batman burst through the front door.

“Hello, Bruce,” Tim said coolly, drawing himself up in his seat.

“Tim,” Bruce said, looking pained even beneath his cowl. “What have you done?”

“Not committing breaking and entry of a private residence, for one.” Tim’s voice was pointed.

“Ra’s is out of your league,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “You’re going to get hurt.”

Tim looked at him narrowly. “Words cannot begin to express the depth of my contempt. I’ve been with Ra’s for a _year_ and a _half_.”

He could see gears turn, mind spinning out ‘stockholm syndrome’ and ‘kidnapping’, shifting him from the category of villain to victim. The first seed was planted.

Tim rose from his seat, and shook out his coat. “If you have nothing better to do than warn me of facts that are blindingly apparent, I will be going. Ra’s is waiting for me.”

Bruce grabbed his arm, and Tim allowed himself to flinch and pull away. It would only add to the web he was weaving. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me. Back. Off.”

“It’s time you came home,” Bruce said grimly. Tim snorted inelegantly.

“I am home. You’re the one trying to abduct me,” Tim pointed out.

He wasn’t at all surprised by the needle prick that followed his statement. As darkness sucked him down, Tim prayed that Ra’s came for him soon.


	10. Standards, August 19, 2012

“Mm-hm. And the situation in Kuwait?” Tim asked, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.

“On it’s way to being resolved. The situation in the middle east would be so much less complicated if only the Americans would refrain from interfering every time somebody so much as sneezes,” Ra’s complained.

Tim snorted. “But Ra’s, how would we teach our soldiers geography otherwise?”

“My own, you are simply terrible,” Ra’s told him.

“You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t.” Tim turned on his heel, and spotted the shadow lurking on his balcony. “Just a minute, I’ve got a visitor. Call you back tomorrow?”

“Of course. Be safe, Hayaati.”

“You too, Ra’s.” Tim hung up the phone and raised his eyebrow in the general direction of his balcony.

“Timmy?” Dick asked, stepping in off the balcony, wide-eyed. “Was that-“

“Ra’s? Yes. You want some coffee, Dick?” Tim asked, pouring himself a cup from the still warm pot.

“Please,” Dick said faintly. “When did you start talking to Ra’s?”

Tim gave Dick an odd look. “I never stopped. We’ve been in communication since I got back to Gotham.”

“Ra’s?” Dick repeated, voice rising. “He tried to kill you!”

“So did Damian, and you still want me to get along with him.” Tim took an appreciative sip of his coffee. Some day, he needed to get Ra’s to tell him where he acquired it.

“That’s different,” Dick protested.

“Not really.”


	11. His Name, August 30, 2012

_I wish you were the one that died instead of her._

The words had never crossed Tim’s lips in the four years between his mother’s death and his dad’s. But they lived in his throat, lurking like angry shadows. Lurking like the ghost of his mother’s son.

‘Timothy’ was the sound of his name from his mother’s tongue, seven letters, three syllables, and a kingdom at his feet. The gift of a woman born for power, born to rise and born to reign. The one who taught him to fear, and to move past fear, to use it as sword or shield against the world.

Timothy, and not Tim. He had been Tim to his dad, and was to Bruce, and Dick, and Steph, and Tam. Drake to Damian. Robin to countless others. Master Timothy to Alfred, and the almost rightness of that makes it hurt all the more.

He has been Timothy to two people alone: his mother, and Ra’s. It makes him foolish at times. He keeps the earpiece Ra’s had given him, keeps the lines of communication open, for the sound of that name. For the chance to be Timothy again, his mother’s son and heir, prince to her empire of shadows.

He missed her. Dearly, deeply. Desperately. The way an ambushed soldier missed his fallen comrades or a besieged kingdom missed its king. The way all endangered things missed allies lost to them.

Before he had been Batman’s Robin, before the realization that ‘Dick Grayson is Robin’, before it all- he had been his mother’s. But his mother’s kingdom has fallen to ash around him, and he is left with Gotham starless skies. All her shadows are gone now, and there is only Bruce’s black and white.

Red Robin is a poor replacement for what he has lost. Bruce’s heir, but not his son. Fit to patrol under his symbol, but not to live in his home. Left a paltry inheritance of duty and choking ties. Tin pennies to the golden horde his mother had once promised.

And Tim is selfish. He wants to be someone’s beloved child again.


	12. Origins, September 17, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fusion with Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. Just go with it.

Damian pulls the older-looking boy along by the hand. He follows obediently, a look of tolerant fondness on his serpentine face.

“Mama, look!” Damian says, tugging the boy’s hand until he stands beside her son. “This is Hep.. Hephaes…”

“Hephaestion,” her son’s…imaginary friend, Talia realizes, finishes for him, a soft hissing sibilance lining the name. He curls his fingers into the hem of Damian’s shirt, glancing at Talia nervously. “Hello.”

Talia smiles. “As in Alexander and?”

Hephaestion nods. And that is that.

***

“Auntie!” Hephaestion calls, panicked. Damian is wrapped in his arms, shirt front tacky with blood. Talia’s blood runs cold, and she meets the boys halfway, kneeling to examine them. Up close, she can see most of the blood is Hephaestion’s, not Damian’s.

“What happened?” She demands, stroking blood-soaked black bangs from Hephaestion’s eyes. His skin is soft and human beneath her fingers, and she spares a moment to try and remember if that were always so.

“We were at the library- he came at us with a knife,” Hephaestion reports, trembling and so very small. He sniffles, blinking back tears, slit pupils blown wide and round.

There’s blood under his blunt nails, drying and dark. “You killed him, didn’t you?” Talia asks. Hephaestion nods. “Good boy.”

***

Talia lifts Hephaestion from Damian’s bed, letting the sleeping boy’s head rest on her shoulder. Janet waits in the receiving room, and when Talia enters, she stands.

“Give him to me,” she tells Talia in a voice no louder than a whisper on the wind. Talia nods reluctantly, and passes him over. Janet strokes his back and murmurs something in a language that hurts Talia’s ears. Black light flares. When it fades, Hephaestion looks subtly different- the scales along his neck are gone, and the curve of his cheek is softer. Doubtless, there are other changes Talia hasn’t noticed.

“My father wants him gone by dawn,” Talia tells Janet, and passes her a sealed envelope. “Take care of him, please.”

“With my life, my lady,” Janet promises.


	13. Till Mourning, September 21, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nolan Verse.

> _“Making a brutal choice, the masked man held onto the frantic child and dragged the youngster into the shadows, away from the attackers, who fell upon the woman like a pack of ravening wolves.” P. 273-274, TDKR Novelization_

Bane met Melisande’s eyes as she was dragged down. Terror and pride both shone in them, and a howl of denial clawed at his throat. Not her, not his friend, not the woman who had survived six years in the pit. Not _Melisande_.

“Don’t look.” Bane clutched Talia tightly, retreating to the furthest corner from the mad frenzy. He watched. Every moment, every face, marking them out. She would be avenged.

It seemed to last forever until at last the men slunk away, leaving only Melisande’s…Bane swallowed back gorge. Leaving her battered body.

“Come, Talia. We need to lay your mother to rest.” Bane knelt and removed his shirt, and wrapped it around Melisande’s still and breathless frame, hiding the worst of the damage. He lifted her body into his arms, cradling it like an infant.

Talia clung to his pant’s leg, and together, they carried Melisande home.

No one dared speak when Bane and Talia entered Melisande’s cell instead of his own. There was still a bowl of water sitting on the floor, with a cloth rag where Melisande had left it. His vision blurred. Talia sobbed, once, before muffling the sound.

Bane laid down his friend and picked up the rag. Then carefully, tenderly, he began to wash the signs of her violation from Melisande’s body.

Hours later, when finally their jailors came to retrieve the corpse, they found Bane and Talia sitting vigil between Melisande and the cell door. Blocking their path.

Bane looked at them, and said nothing.

“We will take care of my mother,” Talia said from Bane’s lap, regal as her mother and twice as cold. “Leave.”


	14. Wife of Jack, October 17, 2012

Janet’s head aches, pounds, _screams_ , and the woman in the mirror is a stranger. She’s too polished, too put together. Elegantly inhuman, frozen to the core, nothing but ice where warmth should be. Janet doesn’t know this woman, doesn’t recognize the room she stands in. It’s her house, but-

_-the wallpaper was peeling and the window looked out on a wall, but it’s theirs, hers and Jack’s and their little baby boy to be-_

-Janet feels like the familiar walls of her house are a cage, her skin a dragging chain, and she can’t breathe. Dark hair, short, cut to her chin, and it’s incorrect. It overwhelms her, this sense of-

_-Jack sat beside her, stroking her hair, his expression one of bewildered wonder._

_“Do you think he’ll have your hair?” he asked, and she laughed, pulling her husband closer._

_“He’s going to have your hair, Jackie. Our baby boy is going to be so handsome.”-_

-dysphoria. It’s not her, it’s not her, not her face, not her hair, not her skin. There’s a stranger in the mirror, _it’s not her_. It’s a lie, a horrid falsehood, and Janet can feel herself disintegrating. She digs her hands into her hair, and pulls, ripping free ragged chunks of hair and bloodied scalp.

From behind her, there’s a shocked noise, and then hands are catching her own, forcing them away from her head. Janet thrashes wildly.

“Janet! Janet, it’s just me,” Jack says-

_-“Once the baby’s born, no more late nights, okay?” she asked sleepily, catching Jack’s hand and tugging him down onto their ratty mattress. “Baby’s going to need his daddy around.”_

_Jack kissed the side of her neck, snuggling up behind her. “No more late nights, Jeannie-love, I promise.”-_

-Janet laughs until her voice cracks, and then she sobs, blood drying under her nails and dark hair scattered on the bathroom floor like the feathers of a dying bird.


	15. Lazy Sunday Mornings

Jack always woke up first in the mornings. Janet, bless his wife’s black heart, was convinced mornings were an invention of the devil, and it looked like their son had inherited that belief. As well as her fondness for late nights.

Jack had known Janet since she was nineteen, and he knew better than to set himself up for disappointment by expecting that part of her to change. He left the nocturnally inclined members of his family to their own devices, and went to bed at ten. Sometimes Janet managed to stumble into bed, more often not. Unless she failed to turn up for coffee, Jack had learned not to worry.

Tiptoeing past the living room, Jack paused to smile fondly at the sight of his family. Janet, normally so composed, was half-draped over the easy chair, and Tim asleep at her feet.

"You’re going to be sore when you wake up," Jack said, muffling his laughter as Janet opened one eye halfway and slurred out a mostly incoherent threat before falling back asleep. Tim didn’t even twitch.

Those two could sleep through an apocalypse. He shook his head, and retreated to the kitchen to make coffee. Best have something to appease the zombies with once they finally rose.


	16. After Bruce's Return

Tim stared at the ear piece that Bruce held between his fingers like one might hold a dead rat. “Ah…Something I can do for you, Bruce?”

"This is League technology, Tim," Bruce said grimly. "Why do you have it?"

 _Because talking to Ra’s is better than Ra’s kidnapping me again_ , Tim did not say. “I picked it up while looking for you. I’ve been examining it in my spare time.” There. That was nice and simple and even true. Just not the whole truth.

"Keeping it in your apartment is an unnecessary risk," Bruce frowned. He pulled an evidence bag from his belt and bagged it. "I’m taking this back to the cave."

Tim swallowed his protests. He didn’t want to upset things between them further by letting Bruce know about the time where he’d fallen low enough to attract Ra’s interest. He’d just have to find some way to deal with Ra’s. “Yes, Bruce,” Tim sighed.

Bruce cupped his shoulder. “I’m not…” he sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair. “When did we get so bad at this, Tim? I’m not angry with you. I’m _worried_. Ra’s is dangerous. I don’t want you getting mixed up with him.”

 _Too late for that_ , Tim thought hysterically. “I understand Bruce, You don’t need to worry.” _It’s way, way too late to worry._

Bruce nodded, expression relieved. “Good. You know you can still come to me if you need help, right? You’re still my Robin.”

"I know. I will," Tim lied, and hated Ra’s a little bit more.


	17. Tumblr Drabble: Multiverse Edition

“Well.” Timothy blinks somewhat rapidly, staring at Ra’s as if he is some sort of new and interesting neurotoxin. “That’s certainly – unusual?”

“Quite. You’re sure no one’s obtained your DNA in recent years?” Ra’s asks idly, still examining the miniature hologram of his recent guest.

Timothy shoots him a poisonous look. “No, Master, I let every Tom, Dick, and David Cain who comes by borrow my genetic code in large quantities, what do you _think_ I’ve been doing?”

“Peace, Timothy.” Ra’s orders absently, mind still on the new development. An older version of his protege, armed for vigilante work. How curious. “Perhaps the German labs have had a break-through on their multiverse project.”

Timothy suppresses a snort. “Please. Last I checked, they couldn’t pass a grape through one of their portals without it turning to pulp. Can I go? I promised Owens a new paralytic to use on his darts.”

“Remain on base, and activate your tracker.” Ra’s casts an irritated gaze his way. “In fact, if you’d ceased deactivating it entirely the first time I asked, I wouldn’t have been awoken in the middle of the night to be told you’d gone rogue.”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?” Timothy asks, not at all effected by Ra’s glare.

"Begone, you awful child."


	18. Tumblr Drabble: Parent-Trap Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is Heartslogos and her vice verse's fault.

Janet sighs irritably. “I told you letting Rose near Timothy was a bad idea.”

“I thought he’d be a good influence,” Slade protests, awkwardly attempting to press further back against the closet wall. It was one of al Ghul’s closets, so it wasn’t as small as it could be, but that didn’t make it a comfortable location for two adult mercenaries and their assorted weaponry.

“Which proves you don’t know my son at all. He’s a terrible child,” Janet says, voice unwillingly fond. She shoved a canvas wrapped bundle at him. “Hold this for a minute.”

“Do I want to know?” Slade asks. The closet’s dark enough that he couldn’t see Jan, but he can somehow _hear_ her roll her eyes.

“I’m getting out my lockpicks, idiot, and I can’t do that with my Tabuk banging against my side every three seconds.” Janet’s shadowy profile blocks the light leaking in from around the door-frame for several moments before cursing. Slade makes absent note of the one involving clothes hangers. He hadn’t heard that one before.

“Rose probably jammed the lock.” He knew he shouldn’t have shown her that. When they got of here, his brat was getting a _negative_ allowance for the next _year._

“ _Dead._ Both of them. Matchmaking little monsters,” Janet growls. “I’ll turn them into cutlets.”

“I’ll be making Rose do survival training for the next month. I’d be more than willing to take Tim along too.” If they were lucky, it might even quell the brats’ apparent desire to be step-siblings.

“He’s yours. Feel free to keep him.”

“Not that dumb, Jan. You can have ‘em both.”

Janet snorts. “When I had him, this was not in the plan, you know.”

“I hadn’t even _had_ a plan when I found out Rose existed. Join the club.” Aggravated Mercenary Single Parents Anonymous. They could be the founding members.

“… how long till someone notices we’re missing, do you think?” Janet asked.

“Can’t be more than a day, day and a half,” Slade said after a moment’s thought. “Maybe two if the brats stay out of sight,”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.”


	19. Tumblr Prompts: Damian and Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rahndom asked: You know me Miss L. 36 Damian and Tim?

_The set up for this one was that Dami and Tim were the only survivors of a major disaster, and were searching for a device that would let them go back in time to prevent it (filling the ‘precious treasure’ part of the prompt) but it never quite got there. Mostly, it’s them snarking at one another._

***

"Hey, demon brat," Tim said wearily. Damian - six inches taller than Tim, and seven years immured to Tim’s often feeble attempts at humor - ignored the nickname.

"Back already, Drake?" Damian still hadn’t looked up from the temporary cave’s computer. Small blessing, Tim supposed.

Tim settled onto one of the gurneys near the back, and started peeling the bloody nomex off his arm. Road abrasions were the absolute worst. Shallow, but they were always huge, and there was the infection risk from the dirt, gravel, and who-knows-what-else that got into the wound. “Complication at the Appalachians. Had to turn back.”

"Idiot," Damian grumbled. He stalked  over, glaring. Tim hid an amused smile. So predictable. “What did you do to yourself now?”

"Ran into a little trouble with a militia group - they wanted the bike’s gas." Tim rolled his eyes.

"-tt-," Damian clicked his tongue. "Incompetents can’t recognize electrics?"

Tim snorted. “Please. If they were any good they’d be in one of the armies. Hey!” Damian grabbed his arm, keeping him from jerking away from his ministrations.

"Do you want to lose the arm? Because I can just _let_ the flesh rot,” Damian threatened, waving the scalpel for emphasis.


	20. Great and Good

And Tim - Tim hasn’t been a good person since Damian started wearing Robin’s colors.

(He’d like to blame Damian for it, or failing that, Dick, but he doesn’t lie to himself anymore. This downward spiral is no one’s fault but his own.)

He sold his soul long ago. Not cheaply. Never cheaply. He portioned it out in slivers and shavings, and got more for it than the tattered thing had ever been worth.

He kept back a fragment of it, just for himself, and bartered the rest away, for phrases like ‘the greater good’ and ‘the long run,’ pretending those things had meaning.

So no, Tim doesn’t care, staring down at this atrocity. He’s seen worse. He’s done worse.

(Some of it even in Bruce’s service. Do you really think it becomes acceptable to use a fourteen-year-old as pedophile bait, just because he was that fourteen-year-old? Don’t be a fool.)

He’s burned his bridges, tilled his fields with salt, whatever metaphor you choose to employ. There has been no going back for many years now. No place which will take him in when the storm grows too fierce to weather. Just him, and the _nothing_ he has made of his life.

As a child, Tim had thought he would be dead by now, crippled, or caged in the identity of Batman. He’d underestimated the depths of his own weakness. He’d become something much worse than any of those.

Once, he’d been a good person. These days, he’s a great one.


	21. Preview: the Secret Six and the Supervillian Spawn

Tim yawns, ‘Lia on his hip. “Are the D’s back yet?”

"Na’yet," Match slurs, slumped over the kitchen table. Thad, half draped over his lap, moans, clutching his head. Tim would feel sorrier for them if he and Match hadn’t been up till three drinking.

Bane is going to throw a very restrained but still terrifying fit when he finds out. And then Scandal will pull out one of her awkward, well-meaning, and thoroughly traumatizing attempts to be parental.

She’s better at it than Tim’s mom, but that’s not saying much. Tim’s mom took over the court of the owls and gave him a partially brainwashed acrobat as a fourth birthday present.

"Breakfast," ‘Lia reminds him, looking up at him with wide eyes. Tim sighs. Talia al Ghul, daughter of Ra’s al Ghul, mother of Damian Wayne, chess master and deadly assassin in her own right … also currently the world’s most adorable toddler.

Ra’s is going to _skin_ Tim if he ever finds out.

"Yeah, darling, breakfast. Give me a moment," he says, and starts wearily searching for where Owen stashed the canned peaches. Dick and Damian cannot get back too soon.


	22. Alpha and Omega

Tim’s file - such a lovely, misleading thing it is - lists him as the child of an alpha and an omega, and has him tagged as a likely beta once he hits puberty. Which is true, but people tend to bring into it assumptions that make introducing his parents _interesting_.

"No, I don’t see why my son should have to take that class when he’s already knows more than the sub-standard lackwit you have teaching it," Mom snaps, teeth bared and eyes bright with rage. Tim is sitting behind her with Dad. Far, far behind her, because Mom’s got an even worse temper than most alphas.

Dad hides his smile, finger-combing Tim’s hair into order. “isn’t she magnificent?” he asks quietly. Tim nods. By now, Mom’s bullied the school secretary into calling the principal over.

***

"Half-wits, all of them. Ugh, why am I surrounded by incompetents?" Mom complains as she herds Tim and Dad out of the office, Tim’s withdrawal papers in hand.

"Mostly because the competent ones know to run when you’re coming, dear heart," Dad says. Mom preens, and Tim pulls a face. Parents flirting, gross.

"Does this mean I’m being homeschooled?" Tim asks, trying to distract them. Mom and Dad glance at one another.

"For a little while, maybe. I can take some time off until we find a new school for you," Dad says. Which is another odd thing about his family. Most bonded omegas aren’t employed unless it’s absolutely necessary. But Dad works at Drake Industries - co-manages it with Mom even - because he likes it.

They get odd looks from other passerbys as they walk, but that’s nothing new. Only seven percent of women are identified alphas, and Gotham’s hardly a bastion of progressive thought. Most female alphas in Gotham bite their tongues and pass under the radar as betas instead.

Mom doesn’t ‘have time for that gender-essentialist bullcrap,’ as she puts it. It probably doesn’t help that male alphas have a tendency to make passes at Dad, because they won’t recognize a woman’s claim.

Tim’s probably seen more people have the shit kicked out of them than most nine year olds, is what he’s saying. Mom gets tetchy when other alphas start sniffing around Dad.

His family is awesome, and Tim wouldn’t have it any other way


	23. Ra's/Tim for Heartslogos

**1\. 2 a.m.**

“Beloved?” Tim’s voice was acidly sweet as he paced his apartment. “Is there a reason your ninja broke into the manor at two in the morning today?”

“I’m sure I don’t have-” Ra’s began, and Tim cut him off.

“Alfred caught them, don’t even try to deny it.” He cocked his head up at the camera he knew Ra’s had in his living room. “At two in the morning, honestly Ra’s. That’s like breaking in middle of dinner. Nobody is asleep.”

“Believe me, there will be words had about that,” Ra’s said, sounding rueful. “I don’t suppose you could convince Mr. Pennyworth to release them?”

“He said that if you passed along the tagine recipe from last month he’d consider it.”

  
**2\. Metaphor**

 “Really, my lord, was that quite necessary?” Timoteo smiled blandly, unruffled by his sudden brush with death. Ra’s looked at the adolescent weapon, wondering for possibly the thousandth time who had forged him. Seven years among his court, and Timoteo was as much a mystery as the day the child had been found among the ruins of the Summer King’s palace.

“As if you were in any danger,” Ra’s said, summoning the boy forward with an imperious gesture. Timoteo’s smile quirked, softening into something that resembled contentment.

“Perhaps not, but it is still rude to throw knives at unsuspecting persons.” Timoteo’s scolding lacked any bite as he settled beside Ra’s on the bench. “The sun is beautiful today.”

Ra’s glanced at the fog covered sky, and the weak gray light that streamed through. “It is.”

  
**3\. Sky**

“Well.”

“That is something of a problem.”

They exchange looks.

“Aren’t you supposed to stop things like this from happening?”

“Beloved, your father had me drugged and restrained in a mad house for several months.”

“Ah. That would be something of an interruption to your work, wouldn’t it?”

“Very much so.”

Another glance at the sky.

“How long do we have?”

“Assuming that was the last, two to four weeks.”

A humorless smile. “This is how the world ends, then? Not with a whimper but a bang.”

“Come to bed, Ra’s. There’s nothing we can do.”

Ra’s nods, and takes Tim’s offered hand. Behind them, mushroom clouds of irradiated ash bloom, blocking out the sun.

  
**4\. lost scene**

Tim snickered, hiding his face in Ra’s neck. “It actually worked.”

“I believe it has,” Ra’s agreed, amusement coloring his voice. “Please tell me have this area under surveillance.”

“Of course,” Tim said, breaking out into another fit of laughter. “Footage backs up to an external storage site automatically.”

“And here I though you forgot my birthday, beloved.” Ra’s’ smirk, if possible, grew wider. Below them, the council of spiders stumbled through the thick fire-suppressing foam, coughing, cursing, and periodically falling.

  
**5\. Degrees**

It is not a matter of any grand declaration, any single thing that they can pinpoint as the change, the moment he slipped away. One day, Tim is there, laughing, collaborating with Bruce on a case. One day, Tim is there, arguing with Damian. One day, Tim is there, with gritted teeth and strained patience. One day, Tim is there, silent and withdrawn.

One day, Tim is not there. One day, Tim is still absent. One day, Tim is gone.

One day, Tim is at Ra’s’ side, laughing, collaborating with him. One day, Tim is at Ra’s’ side, bo staff drawn to defend the man he calls ‘master.’ One day, Tim is at Ra’s’ side.

And he’s not coming back.


	24. Tumblr Drabble: Parent-Trap Edition Part Two

“What the fuck, Tim?” Janet did not mean to ask that. She does not swear around her twelve-year-old son. She has better self-control than that. And more importantly, it means she can lord it over Slade, whose daughter has the vocabulary of a well-traveled soldier, all learned from him.

At least Tim has the decency to look sheepish. Rose is entirely unrepentant, and she makes a mental note to inform Slade he owes her _multiple_ favors for this. Baby sitting is one thing, dealing with both of the daughter al Ghul’s largely-nonverbal sons is quite another.

“We got Talia’s permission?” her son offers, and bites his lip. “Actually, she kind of suggested it, I think she’s got something going on with Ra’s. Against Ra’s, not with him, I mean, she’s really not happy with him -”

“Breathe, boyo,” Janet orders. She sighs, and picks up the crying heir to the al Ghul empire. Toddlers, ugh. Even her son’s toddler years hadn’t been pleasant. At least the _other_ boy isn’t noisy.

“It’s not like it’s against the rules, anyway,” Rose said with a pout that was probably supposed to be a scowl. “I checked the list you left.”

Janet raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting, Rose Wilson, that I need to specifically tell you that acquiring other human beings without notifying me is not allowed? Do I _also_ need to tell you not to set yourself on fire?”

Rose blushes a dull red and mutters a negative under her breath. Tim squirms in his seat beside the sleeping teenager – what was his name again? Jay – something. James, maybe. Baby al Ghul cries and Janet nearly drops him before awkwardly adjusting her hold.

“You’re both grounded until Rose’s father comes back from his job, and then we’ll discuss your real punishment. In the meantime…” Janet pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “We’re going to need a crib.”

***

“And that is why we now have joint custody of Talia’s spawn. Congratulations. You get the toddler, I’m not doing that again.” Janet shoves the diaper bag at Slade with undignified glee. Slade actually takes it, and the small part of Janet which was still twelve crowed that he’d touched it last, now it was his job.

Slade stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head, and then turns to glare at his daughter. “Rose, didn’t I fucking tell you to stay away from that family?”

Rose shrugs. “Tim wasn’t, and I was just following him.”

“Not actually a loophole, baby-Wilson,” Janet says, not even turning to look at the girl. “Try harder.”


End file.
